those hands punched me
knocked the wind out of me,
reflecting what is ugly
my flat face,
i wondered if anybody
had beaten them,
corroding life
with the spit of minutes
splashing on my face
no shadows
as i grunted
accepting what passes,
age no longer a pleasure
but a cruel joke
i wore the bruises
clotted flesh no longer taut,
another whiskey
salute that clock,
wood rimmed containing
the mechanism
that makes time work,
what a load of crap,
i close my eyes
and my own minutes passed
i would not be reliant on it
anymore
velvetmedia 